Effigy for the Blameless

Summary: Seven thousand lives, three different species, six hours to decide. Two negotiators, two mercenaries, and one being that defies all explanation.
Time decays, hope erodes...a final effigy for all...

Never Ending Sunrise - In which a boy becomes a man

I
never understood my father. Not when I was a young boy, and certainly not when
I became a young man.

When
I was a young boy, my father would astound me each and every day. He was a man
I believed capable of anything, and everything, and all that I wished was to
one day grow up to become just like him. I had other friends with important
parents, and many of them seemed to hate it. They disposed being Ruth’s
daughter or Paul’s little boy, but not me. No, as far back as I can remember, I
was always agog beyond measure to be Johnathon Maverick’s son.

I
never had a name. Not one that I was ever properly called by anyways. I was
always “Maverick’s boy”, and that was good enough for me.

My
father, Johnathon Maverick was a plenipotentiary. His official title was Maven.
Maven Maverick.

As
Maven Maverick, my father would travel far and wide across the stars, brokering
back door deals, negotiating peace treaties, and arbitrating everything from
suicide attempts to hostage situations. Of my father, people would often say
“If you need a win, always bet on M!”

As
you can imagine, all of that idolatry and adoration waned quite considerably in
my teenage years.

I
watched as my father leaned forward at a very precisely calculated thirty four
and a half degree angle. He placed his fingertips along the left side of the
legate’s stomach, a bit nearer the center, and applied the slightest hint of
pressure. My father cocked his head to one side, pursing his lips slightly. He
indicated with a turn of his hand that Legate Anavara’s swollen form was beauteous
and lustrous, praising her fertility.

For
the Siveran’s as they’d come to be called in standard as their chosen name
could not be pronounced by most speaking species vocal chords, fertility was a
value beyond measure. They were not, however, some chauvinistic society that
expected their women to stay swoll and barefoot in the kitchen. Quite the
contrary; Siveran physiology granted their females what their people called “The
Knowing”.

To
possess greater proximity to The Knowing was to tap into a sacred place,
wherein they would be visited by grand visions of things to come, and granted
superior strength, speed and resilience. The females of their species would
form a Grace; a sisterhood wherein they would support one another and share the
vast knowledge and resources they gained. They fought on the front lines. They
wrote epic poems. They composed enchanting sonnets.

And
then, they died.

Legate
Anavara had been with child for three of our years. This seemed like a
ludicrously protracted period of time to me, however Siveran’s live long.
Legate Anavara would form a psychic bond with her young during this time, seven
in total, and pass all that she knew of the world on to them. At their birth,
they would have to fight to survive crossing beyond the veil. Legate Anavara
would press upon them all of her hopes, her dreams, her passions, her life.

Surviving
the birth of one to three was difficult enough. Seven almost certainly assured
Legate Anavara would perish. However, she seemed at peace.

“Through
them my life lives on.” She spoke with a simple, and pleasant smile.

I
marveled once more at her beauty.

Tall,
very tall, with long flowing gowns of crimson, gold and plum. Her neck was long
and slightly curved, her eyes large and almond, rising as wisps to meet
intricately tattooed ridges above.

With
her slender three fingered hands Legate Anavara reached down to my father, her
seven and a half feet short for her species. She simultaneously touched his
temples, cheeks and collar bones, and leaned forward as well. Her forehead
touched my fathers, a faint navy glow to her dusky bronze skin.

This
would be mistaken as a sign of affection by our species, Huma as most other
races refer to us. However, what this gesture truly meant was that she accepted
my father. The length of time in which she held the pose would measure how
well.

Seven
seconds passed. More than an associate, not quite a friend, but in many ways an
equal.

The
two rose in unison, and Legate Anavara turned without addressing me. By her
species’ standards, I am little more than a servant. My own mistake; I stood
behind my father to the right, showing my obvious lack of importance.

A
mistake of my own design; I had been instructed not to speak. We had, after
all, a very, very delicate matter to
discuss.

“Follow,
if you may.” Legate Anavara gestured with a slight nod of her head. We did as
we were invited.

I
wished to watch my father, to take queue from him on how I ought conduct
myself, or if the negotiations were going well. Oh yes, the negotiations were
of course well underway. In truth they began from the moment we first made
contact, and everything, every touch and every turn was carefully calculated
for maximum impression and sway. The Siveran race all but revolved around cordiality,
and had we not come prepared our discourse would have perished in damnation and
flame before it could even begin.

Legate
Anavara tilted her head just so, to the left, with the slightest blue to her
bronze cheeks. Flattered, and perhaps a little…intrigued. Increased libido came
with the territory in most any species, and I’ve been told that my father is
handsome for a huma.

Uncomfortable
words to hear from an Elivian officiate, to be sure.

“Maven
Maverick, you of course know our pilgrimage is most sacred. However, my air
burns brightly, filled with ardor and zeal. My sisters in Grace are given to
alacrity and impetuosity, save one who waxes and wanes betwixt avidity and
dismay. I pray for her calamity to pass; she is yet young and rose with
difficulty. I fear she rebukes the warmth of Grace as much as she craves our
bonds. Though she cannot be blamed; tis’ a difficult thing to grow gravid when
one’s bond-mate has passed.”

My
father goes on. I only understood about half of the words Legate Anavara used,
however there was one woefully excruciating concept I could conceive of.

The
young girl, parous and parturient, walked this rode alone. True, she was
embraced by her Grace, however her mate had passed. To use the word “husband”
seems to pay the deep love of the Siveran’s a disservice and taint the emotion.
Siveran mate for life. One husband, one wife, for all of eternity until the two
pass on.

The
poor girl. Her heart would be broken for the rest of her existence. Seven years
of pregnancy, all on her own. I could relate in some small way to her
immeasurable sorrows; my mother died when I was yet young. I walked this road
with Jonathon Maverick, whom I had reconciled as more legend than man at that
point in my life.

“Most
gracious, Legate Anavara. I shall lay aside my encumbrance.” My father answered
as he took his seat.

“Our
millstones are joyously loosed.” Legate Anavara beamed as she moved in that
ethereal way of hers. She did not so much sit, as she was standing, and then
she was not.

I
waited a full ten seconds before turning to face my father, and five more after
his nod before taking my seat, back and to the right. To show Legate Anavara my
complete and total lack of importance was imperative, elsewise I would be expected to participate fully in their
discussions. While I clearly had been studying their culture for some time
prior to accompanying my father on his mission, the fact still remained that
this was not a matter for the likes
of me. After all…

The
lives of seven thousand four hundred fifty two human beings hung in the balance
of that which was to come.

****************

“The
present senescence is thus,” my father began, using a word one might find odd,
however was truly quite appropriate given the circumstances.

“There
is a colony in which many dwell, their numbers meeting seven thousands, four
hundreds, fifty tens and two. This colony now dwells within great conflict; the
Atavash have grown emboldened and do so make claims of conquest. We face a
great cataclysm, Legate Anavara. This colony, which is known by way of
McCaffrey 9, cannot survive without aid.

“Long
have the Atavash set eyes upon fire and storm. Their hunger grows great, and
their avarice and rapacity knows no bounds. We are in need, Legate Anavara. I
come that we might entreat upon your grace to grant us pith of valor in our
time of tribulation.”

McCaffrey
9, named for a weaver of worlds and wonder true, was simply put under attack.
The Atavash, a greedy race that looked the cross of a large lobster and some
manner of squid that might make Cthulu question paternity, wanted the colony
for its own. In truth, we had been embroiled in a number of sorties with the sage
green and royal plum Atavash for some time, though war had not yet been
formally declared.

The
Atavashian government often hid behind the excuse that these were rogue
splinter cells, groups of mercenaries that owed their allegiance to no one.
They further elaborated, see: lied through their spiked and segmented teeth,
that these outfits were disavowed and as such the allied bodies of Atava had no
responsibility to cull their murderous intent.

While
it was possible for the HUF, or Huma United Front to send aid, by the time the
elite Epheaf, Ephesian Armored Forces, could lay boots to ground it would be
far too late. The Atavash are sneaky bastards; they burrow underground and are
very patient, and very slow. They chill their bodies such that they won’t show
on thermal, and slide along tectonic plates to avoid tripping seismic sensors.
Truly, we were only aware of their presence due to good intel, and a healthy
dose of paranoia.

The
Atavash have many cultural advantages, but they are not without their tells.
Atavashians emit a certain electric frequency, and though they can shift and
change and hide this frequency quite well, we as a people were quickly adapting
our technologies to fight against this form of cloaking that they utilize.

“However,
their hunters have confounded our wisdom with their guile.”

Legate
Anavara lowered her head, a sign of empathy and shared sorrow.

“The
Vibrational Seed.”

Her
words were not a question, rather confirmation of understanding.

The
Vibrational Seed was a technology the Atavash had butchered, borrowed and
stolen from the Kisk not too long ago. The Kisk people were known for their
science as much as their art. Kiskans, those of the planet Kiska, were always
producing some useful gadget or other. The problem with Kisk, is that they most
always ask the question “Can I?” rather than “Should I?” when it comes to their
scientific breakthroughs.

The
Vibrational Seed was a device that emitted a large number of frequencies that
would make radars go berserk. If your approach was seismic, it did seismic.
Need to hide energy? It does that too.

The
Seed was stolen by another “rogue splinter cell” under mysterious and bloody
circumstances. Before long, the Atavash suddenly just happened to make a
technological breakthrough. Go figure.

“Legate
Anavara, we Huma are not without our fangs. Even now we rally our lions that
they might roar and claw and bite, however… We are spread too thin. Our troops
deployed in haste and fervor are leagues away from need. A small company fights
to defend McCaffrey, yet they are soon to be overwhelmed. And so, it is with
great prostration and pain that I beseech your approbation; please Legate
Anavara, grant us your valor that we might together grow mighty.”

:
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